


Estrus

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Barbed Penis, Cat/Human Hybrids, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mpreg, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:59:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Arthur unexpectedly goes into heat during a job, Eames gives into his instincts without understanding the consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anestrus

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20822.html?thread=50413142#t50413142) prompt at [Inception_kink](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/). Includes references to past underage dub/non-con.

_**Anestrus**  
the queen is sexually inactive and will not accept the tom's advances_

~

Five minutes after being introduced, Eames tries to touch Arthur's ears. They're really quite lovely, dark gray and tabby-striped.

Arthur hisses at him before his fingertips even make contact, baring his sharp canines.

"Must you antagonize my pointman?" Cobb questions mildly. Arthur is already across the room, staring down at his laptop with icy intensity. Eames is almost positive he has a tail tucked down the leg of his trousers.

"I've never seen one with ears before!" Eames protests, indignant. It's true enough--second sets of ears are rare outside of pure lines, and Eames' family is far from pure. As far as he's concerned, he got the short end of the feline stick: slit pupils and a barbed cock to match. But Arthur is something else: all sharp corners and lithe feline movements.

Arthur corners him after work, lashing him with a tongue as sharp as his claws.

"I trust Cobb's judgment," Arthur growls, "so I'll work with you. But having two sets of ears doesn't make me your plaything, asshole."

"Of course it doesn't," Eames agrees, eager to please. "Those trousers fit you magnificently, by the way."

Claws snick out, and Eames squawks, blood welling up from the trio of scratch marks now decorating his cheek.

Cobb shakes his head and grimly continues on.

~

Arthur softens towards him with time, but, well. Eames still isn't allowed to touch his ears.

“You're kidding me,” Arthur says, when Eames brings him lunch. The latte has a heart swirled into the foam. “You're trying to court me, aren't you? Asshole.”

He pauses, nose twitching delicately as he eyes the bag in Eames' hand. “Is that tuna?”

“Yes?” Eames says, hopefully, and Arthur takes it.

~

Two years later, Arthur and Eames claw their way out of Robert Fischer's subconscious. This inevitably leads to a sense of mutual respect, however grudging it may be. Luckily, this also means they're at the point where Eames feels comfortable probing his acquaintances for more information about him.

“Yeah, I know Arthur,” Reynolds nods, looking at Eames over the rim of his glass. “Well, as much as someone can know him, I guess. He's a spitfire, isn't he?”

“He's got quite the barbed tongue on him,” Eames agrees. They sit in silence for a while, sipping their drinks. There's no hurry; he knows what a gossip Reynolds is. It's only a matter of time.

“That's the only thing he's got that's barbed, if you get my meaning,” Reynolds suddenly replies, leaning in conspiratorially. Eames arches an eyebrow.

“I have it on good authority that he's actually a queen,” Reynolds continues, nearly whispering now, as if Arthur might pop up from under the bar at any moment. “One of my good friends is a pure-blood, and he says he can smell it on him. They worked together once, and he swears to heaven and back that he caught Arthur just coming into a heat, lying on the ground mewling.”

Eames' dick twitches in his pants at the thought—Arthur laid out on his stomach, raising his hips and crying out for a tom to mate him.

“What happened?” Eames coaxes, and Reynolds grins.

“He tried to breed him, of course, but Arthur wouldn't have it. Scratched him right across the chest. He has the marks to prove it, too.”

Another image, now: Arthur's claws sunk deep into the carpet, his slender body quaking with thunderous purrs.

Eames' phone beeps in his pocket, distracting him from his little fantasy. The caller I.D. reads “Cobb”.

“Work calls,” Eames grins, clapping Reynolds on the shoulder. “Thanks for the chat.”

“Of course,” Reynolds smiles, his eyes sparkling. “And good luck.”

~

Later that night, Eames types “male queens” into the Google search bar. The little cursor blinks innocently, and he stares at it for a while, thinking. This can of worms, once opened, will be very difficult to close.

Fuck it.

He clicks onto a medical site first, quickly scanning the article. Heat cycles, self-lubrication, mewling and crying for a tom.

Eames' parents never told him much about cat-people, and he'd honestly never cared to know. He'd learned quickly enough that his barbs tore through condoms, and “hurt like a motherfucking bitch” (that being a direct quote from a mostly-human girl he tried to fuck once). That was enough information for him, until. Well.

The next website he clicks onto is decidedly shadier. There's a video embedded in the middle of the page, tucked in between advertisements of male queens lifting their tails to show off glistening holes.

Eames hits play.

The queen is small and compact, his curly brown hair falling into his eyes. He's crouched low to the ground and yowling loudly, tail lashing from side to side. Eames skips five minutes ahead, arousal tingling down his spine as he watches the queen arch his throat and press himself back onto a tom's cock, crying out in pain and ecstasy.

Eames clicks out of the browser, feeling guilty when he wishes, fleetingly, that the queen's hair had been just a few shades darker.

~

Four months later, Ariadne calls him about a job in Marseille. The extractor is some bloke Eames has never heard of—Petrov or Pestov or something—and he's just about to turn her down when she utters that magical sentence.

_Arthur's running point._

“I'll be there by Sunday,” Eames says.


	2. Proestrus

_**Proestrus**  
the queen is coming into heat but not yet ready to be bred; signs may include restlessness and affection towards potential mates_

~

Arthur can smell a heat coming on.

Three weeks early.

Everything is in high-definition, sensations zinging down his spine like electric shocks. The cloth of his suit rasps uncomfortably against his skin; the urge to slide his jacket off overpowers him. He can feel himself lubricating, his hole aching and sensitive.

And god does he hate to admit it, but Eames looks absolutely fantastic right now. Arthur has always—well, either way, the scent of Eames' musk is driving him mad.

“Darling,” Eames' voice suddenly intones, and Arthur stiffens. The sound is like a caress down his spine, his tail quivering in his pants. “It's bloody freezing in here. Why are you removing clothing?”

The smirk Arthur gives him is mostly unintentional. Hormones and all. “Put your eyes back in your head, Mr. Eames. I've only just rolled up my sleeves.”

Eames looks surprised for a moment, then delighted. “Is that a sense of humor I detect? My lord, I might just kiss you.”

What a choice of words, Arthur thinks, and the memory comes before he can suppress it.

_They're halfway down a dark San Francisco alleyway, moonlight reflecting silver off dirty bricks. Eames is wrapped around him, hands grasping at his hips, mouth tasting and sucking and moaning. One hand is sliding up into his hair, soft lips murmuring how beautiful he is, how clever._

_Arthur isn't in heat, but he is drunk. His entire body is tingling, his tail struggling to free itself from his pants in order to twine itself around Eames._

_Eames' fingers approach his ears, and Arthur abruptly comes back to his senses, recoiling. Being stroked there would no doubt make him purr and mew, his body pliant._

He'd left Eames cold that night, heading off to the nearest hotel. Arthur didn't do pliant then, and he certainly doesn't now. Hell, for all he knows, Eames doesn't even remember that night.

He turns his back, shoulders set in a tense line. “I wouldn't try it if I were you.”

~

The marker squeaks loudly against the whiteboard, breaking the silence.

_Two hospital levels needed—ICU & Recovery. Size variable. Eame—_

Arthur quickly erases the last four letters, lips thinning. Thoughts are banging off the inside of his skull, most of them having to do with the man across the room. Arthur can tell Eames is watching him; the hair at the back of his neck is prickling.

Crossness has always been a defense mechanism, and now he can barely even muster up a proper scowl. All he wants to do is cuddle up and knead at him a bit, maybe share lunch and kiss and—

_Well, I've obviously lost my mind,_ Arthur grimly muses. _Time to pack it up._

“Come and have lunch,” a warm voice says from close behind him. He startles a little; these hormones seriously fuck with his concentration. With the way Eames is smelling right now, Arthur should have scented him coming a mile away.

“I'm busy,” he replies shortly.

“Come now, I brought you tuna,” Eames replies, a grin in his voice. A hand is by his face, then, waving a sandwich. “I know how you love your tuna.”

Thought is kind of out the window at this point, obviously, because he turns his face and nips at Eames' wrist.

Eames gasps, and instead of pulling away, he tilts his wrist _into_ the sharp pressure of his teeth.

The skin tastes like salt.

“Just give me the damn sandwich,” Arthur says, taking it out of his hand.

~

In his defense, Eames does knock. Multiple times.

“Arthur?” he calls, worried. “Are you all right, my love?”

No answer. He pushes open the door, and stops dead.

Arthur is laid out on the bed, clad in a frayed t-shirt and too-big sweats. His eyelashes are laid against his cheeks, and his—and.

His tail is out, thumping softly against the mattress.

“Jesus,” he intones, and Arthur jerks awake, a gun emerging from nowhere.

“Eames,” he growls, irritated. “The fuck are you doing in here? Why didn't you knock?”

“I did,” Eames protests. “Now would you be a dear and lower the gun, please?”

He does, blushing when Eames stares at his tail. “Stop gawking at me already, will you? I needed a fucking nap.”

“I didn't say a word,” Eames murmurs, stepping slowly towards the bed. Arthur's tail instinctively tucks itself beneath his thigh, shying out of sight.

Eames reaches for it, aching to feel the silky fur slip between his fingers.

~

Arthur entertains the thought for one long, delicious moment. Letting Eames touch him and stroke him until he's purring. Letting Eames slide his cock inside of him, letting him fuck the heat right out of him. Maybe he would kiss him as well, whispering things against the shell of his ear. And then Arthur would beg for him to spill inside of him, to fill him up with his seed, and then.

And then.

“Don't touch it,” Arthur breaths, his entire body gone stiff. A frustrated sigh bursts from Eames' chest, and he lays his palm on the bed instead, poised over him.

“I don't understand you,” Eames grits out. “Why are you playing with me like this? After San Francisco....”

The sound of their breathing is too loud in the silence, and Arthur stares. The scent rolling off of Eames' body is maddening.

“I.... I don't know what you're talking about,” Arthur replies, cold.

Eames' eyes are abruptly shuttered. “Well then.... I suppose that settles it.”

Arthur stares at the door for a long time after it's shut.


	3. Estrus

_**Estrus**  
the queen is fertile and ready to be bred; he will assume the breeding position and emit loud vocalizations that may be mistaken for cries of pain_

~

The day is stiflingly humid, and Eames mops at his brow, sighing. Tailing the mark's father had been more difficult than he'd anticipated, and he had come away with hardly any observation time. He needs to consult Cobb about another strategy—

“Eames!” Ariadne shouts, bursting into the alleyway where Eames is busy smoking a fag. The door slams back against the brick wall, rattling the hinges. “Thank god you haven't left yet!”

“What's the matter?” he asks, pulling out his gun. His Plan B is already circling through his head; if they can get as far as the airport he knows a guy who could—

“It's Arthur,” Ariadne replies, tugging him into the building. “Cobb and I don't know what's wrong, but he sounds like he's in pain—”

“Bring me to him,” Eames demands, his blood running cold. Low, throaty yowls are echoing throughout the warehouse, underlain with a splintered note of desperation. They don't sound much like cries of pain to Eames, but—

He stops dead, his gun hanging limply at his side.

Arthur is sprawled out on the floor next to his desk, his face buried in his arms. His shirttails have come untucked, and are pushed up far enough to show off the pale, arching curve of his lower back. His knees are just barely holding his lower body off the ground, thighs trembling madly beneath his slacks. The scent emanating from his body is incredible—sex and musk and arousal.

Eames' cock is immediately hard in his pants.

“Just go away!” Arthur hisses, his ears laid flat against his head. “I already told you; I'm f—”

He snuffles at the air, then, his nose quivering. When he looks up, his pupils are thin strips of black, crowded out by amber irises.

“Eames,” he rasps, drawing it out into a low whine. And Jesus Christ, Ariadne and Cobb are staring, and—

Arthur rolls over onto his back, mewling plaintively. His shirt rides up, revealing a hard, flat stomach, and below that, a burgeoning erection. He purrs, once, a harsh burst of vibration.

Eames is on him in a moment, pinning his hips to the ground and snuffling against his neck. Static fills his ears, blotting out the rest of the world until there's nothing left but the heat of Arthur's body beneath his hands. Eames wants to tear his clothes apart and devour him, lift up that pretty tail of his and sink deep into—

_“Oh my god,”_ someone yelps when Eames flips Arthur over, pulling his slacks and briefs down over his hips. The scent of his arousal hits Eames like an ocean wave, his tail whipping free to lash at the air. An animalistic rumble is coming from somewhere deep in Eames' chest, his fingers fumbling for his belt buckle as Arthur arches against the carpet.

Silky tabby fur brushes his cheek, and Eames wraps the tail around his knuckles, lifting it out of the way. A door slams shut somewhere in the background, but Eames doesn't even hear it, his eyes caught on the glistening pink pucker hidden beneath the curve of Arthur's tail.

The little entrance quivers beneath his touch, and Eames buries his nose against the base of his tail, moaning loudly. He tastes the wetness there and drags his cheek up the slope of his back, skimming over the fabric to kiss his chin, the lush curve of his mouth.

A soft ear brushes his cheek as Arthur cranes his neck around, sharp canines nipping at his lips. A wordless buzzing has started up in Eames' head, a splinter of need digging deep into the most primitive part of his brain.

A deep purr vibrates against his cheek as Eames rubs his hands up under Arthur's t-shirt, the head of his cock pressing insistently against his sweet pucker. Arthur kneads the ground with all four limbs in reply, thighs splayed wide and hindquarters raised, offering himself with a mewl.

“Oh, you precious thing,” Eames rumbles, twining his fingers around Arthur's tail before sinking into the velvet-wet heat of him.

Arthur's claws grip into the carpet, and he cries out as Eames ruts against him, hundreds of tiny barbs tearing at him. His hipbones are sharp beneath Eames' fingers, and he grinds himself back with abandon, caterwauling loudly.

“Is this what you needed, my petal?” Eames growls, giving Arthur's tail a sharp tug. He yelps in surprise, then moans when Eames massages the flat plane of his stomach. “Gonna breed you till you're dripping, till you're swelling up with my kittens.”

The remaining carpeting shreds with a heavy _riiipp_ noise, Arthur's claws scraping grittily across the concrete beneath. Eames doesn't know why he says it; the words just cascade off his lips. This means something, but they—they can't stop, can't string more than two coherent words together.

“Yeah,” Arthur pants, pressing back into his hands. “Want you to fill me up, put your babies inside of me, Eames, hhnggh....”

Sticky liquid streaks Eames' wrist, and he growls, touching Arthur's cock as he orgasms. The tension in his gut is suddenly too much, and he pumps his come deep inside of him, grunting wordlessly as he ruts against the pert curve of his ass.

He instinctively pulls out once he's finished, none-too-gentle, and Arthur _screams_ , jerking away with a hiss.

Shit. He'd forgotten all about his barbs.

He gasps, smoothing his palms down Arthur's trembling flanks. “Did I hurt you? Bloody hell, I—”

He's cut off by a deep rumbling, and Arthur rolls over, eyes half-mast with bliss. A tie is lying by their heads, thrown off in the midst of their passion, and Arthur buries his face against it, inhaling deeply.

“Look at you go,” Eames murmurs in wonder as Arthur squirms against the ground, flipping over again. He lets him go for a few minutes, watching him knead happily at the ground as he rolls back and forth.

“You come back to earth yet?” Eames finally teases, sliding their hands together on the ruined carpet. The smile he gets in return is breathtaking, those flushed cheeks dimpling.

“I won't for at least another 24 hours,” Arthur murmurs in reply, opening his legs. The dripping, puffy hole hidden beneath his tail is a sore temptation, and Eames can feel himself hardening once again, his body reacting to Arthur's pheromones. “I've never had a heat come on this quickly before.”

“Well, I'm sure we'll manage,” Eames smiles, boxing him in with his bulk, and Arthur nuzzles into his throat with a purr.

~

_I can't move,_ Arthur thinks.

This isn't quite true, but dragging himself out of bed is certainly a painful process. His last memory is of Eames' hands wrapped around his hips, rocking him back and forth over his lap.

The heat was literally fucked out of him, Arthur wryly observes. They'd relocated to the hotel sometime late last night, and Eames is still sprawled out asleep on the bed, the warmth of his skin a sore temptation. Arthur considers curling back under the covers and goes to pee instead.

There's blood in his underwear.

Arthur tilts his head, gazing curiously at the innocuous crimson streak. Eames is well-endowed, but certainly not big enough to tear him—

A single memory surfaces in his mind, emerging from his hazy recollection of the past 24 hours. It tickles the edges of his consciousness, half-formed. He can't....

His head is suddenly swimming, and he stumbles against the countertop, his claws clicking out against the sink basin. He remembers it _burning,_ his insides raked raw every time Eames withdrew. He'd never wanted the pain to stop; the most primitive part of his brain had yearned for it.

That part of his brain knew what it meant, and wanted it.

“Fuck,” Arthur whispers, meeting his own eyes in the mirror before looking down at his stomach. He touches it gingerly, uselessly searching for some sign, some change.

Why hadn't Eames told him?

_Maybe it didn't take,_ he thinks. _I'm sure it didn't take._

The thought splinters into a million pieces, each as sharp as broken glass. He leans over the toilet bowl and retches once, twice. Flushes.

Then he crawls back into bed.


	4. Gestation

_**Gestation**  
the queen's pregnancy will last about 6 months; he may experience symptoms very similar to human pregnancy_

~

“I'm sorry about the carpet,” Arthur says. Cobb is sitting across the desk from him, pretending not to hear. “I've never had a heat come on so quickly. I'm, er, sorry you had to see that.”

“What's seen is seen,” Cobb mumbles, tactful enough to avoid grimacing. “You can't fight biological processes, I guess.”

Arthur comes _this close_ to giggling hysterically, but thankfully chokes it down.

“Well,” he says. “I'd better go apologize to Ariadne.”

“I don't think she minded, somehow,” Cobb grumbles under his breath, but lets him go.

~

Vegetable oil is smoking merrily on the stove, and Arthur is in good spirits. Their job is winding down nicely, and the dreaming itself is set up to be a cakewalk. More importantly, Arthur is feeling just fine. A little fatigued, but. Fine.

And he's not avoiding Eames, either, he's just—not spending very much time around him. They're both busy people, after all.

Arthur's phone rings on the table. He ignores it.

Chicken lo mein has always been a favorite meal of his. The marinated chicken looks amazing already, and he tips it into the wok, humming tunelessly. Then he catches a whiff of it, meaty and thick, and he. He just.

Something settles wrong in his stomach.

He makes it to the bathroom, but just barely, retching into the toilet. The lo mein might well catch fire at this rate, but he can barely stomach the thought of going back in there.

It's more bearable with his nose plugged, and he dumps the entire thing into the trash, dragging it out to the curb. Then he drives to the pharmacy, fingertips numb on the steering wheel. He buys three different kinds, just in case.

14 tests lined up on the bathroom sink. Arthur regards them with impassive eyes: seven double pink lines, four plus signs, and three “pregnants”.

He throws them out, washes his hands, and dumps the gin and tonic he'd made for himself.

~

Eames catches his wrist as he's slipping out the back door of the warehouse three weeks later. He's $50,000 dollars richer, and Eames is—Arthur forgot just how soft his lips are.

“Mmm,” Eames sighs, pressing him back against the bricks. He nuzzles up under his neck, snuffling lightly. “You smell fantastic lately.”

Arthur grips his shoulders, fingertips numb. “New cologne.”

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Eames rumbles, dragging his thumb across one sharp cheekbone. “It's about time we go on a proper date, hmm?”

Arthur closes his eyes, exhaling hard. “I'd rather not, Mr. Eames.”

The hands on his waist falter, and Eames stares at him, chuckling awkwardly. “You.... You can't be serious.”

Shrugging his shoulders was the wrong response, obviously, because Eames abruptly backs him against the wall with a growl, shoulders bristling with indignation.

“I won't let you do this again, Arthur,” Eames murmurs, hands hard on his hips. “I let you go after San Francisco, but I will not let you go after this.”

The flush that rises on Arthur's cheeks is sudden and unpleasant. “I was in heat! I didn't know what I was saying.”

“You aren't fooling me anymore,” Eames shoots back, pushing away from him with a scoff. “We've been dancing around this issue for years, pet. But silly me, I thought making love to you a half dozen or so times might actually change something.”

“It changed something, all right,” Arthur laughs, a rough-edged burst of sound. “Being pregnant tends to change a whole lot of things.”

A drop of rain hits the pavement. Another. “What did you just say?”

“I don't need to repeat myself,” Arthur replies, claws digging painfully into the heels of his hands. He wants to scratch that blank look right off Eames' face. “Why the hell didn't you tell me, Eames? You knew this would happen, and you fucked me anyway!”

“What're you talki--?” Eames starts, eyebrows drawn together, but Arthur continues over top of him.

“I know I come from a pure-line, okay, and this is exactly why I left. Being a queen doesn't give every fucking tom in the vicinity unequivocal rights to my ass! And I will not sit around and raise your fucking spawn while you go off and do whatever the fuck you—”

“Don't you dare call them that,” Eames growls, looking truly angry for the first time. “I have no idea what you're going on about, Arthur, and I have no fucking clue how someone from such a diluted line got you pregnant, but don't you dare call my babies spawn.”

The possessive "my babies" turns Arthur's stomach, and he lays his ears flat against his head, screeching now. “Your family line doesn't have anything to do with it, you idiot! Didn't your parents teach you anything? It's your barbs, Eames! Barbs make queens ovulate! I learned that when I was _twelve years old!”_

Rain patters down around them, wetting Arthur's ears. Eames looks abashed, stumbling dazedly when Arthur shoves him.

"I've had just about enough of you, I think," Arthur hisses, and stalks away.

~

It takes Eames three weeks to find him. Arthur opens the door to his flat looking very tired, and folds his arms.

“What are those for?” he tonelessly inquires, looking down at the peonies in Eames' hands.

“Can I come in?” Eames asks, and Arthur shrugs, stepping aside.

The flat is sleek and a little bland, obviously unlived-in. One wall is nothing but glass, the Manila skyline glittering a few miles beyond it. Eames sets the flowerpot on the kitchen table.

Arthur leans against the island and watches him, arms folded over his chest. He's clad in a loose sweater that falls to mid-thigh; it hides any baby-bump he might have.

“I'm sorry,” Eames says. He's expecting a shrug in response, but Arthur just looks at him, sharp features impassive. “I didn't—I never knew something like this could happen. And even if I had, I don't know if I...if I could have stopped myself.”

“It doesn't matter,” Arthur replies, picking at the hem of his sweater. “It won't after tomorrow, anyway. I have an appointment to...to take care of things.”

_Take care of things,_ Eames thinks. The words float aimlessly through his mind, and when they finally click, bile rises in his throat.

“You don't mean—” Eames says, and Arthur glances up at him, answering his question by the set of his ears. “No. I—I can't let you do that, Arthur. I won't let you do that.”

“It's my fucking body, Eames,” Arthur growls, tail bristling. “And I'm sure as hell not going to end up as some kind of housewife just because you knocked me up. I spent my entire childhood hearing that shit from my clan, how I was destined to be some kind of breeding machine.”

“Your clan,” Eames repeats, and Arthur looks at him strangely.

“Yes? You know I'm a purebred, Eames.”

“I didn't know you were a _pure_ bred,” Eames disagrees, shaking his head. “You're obviously from an old family, but I didn't know you were—Jesus Christ. A clan.”

“You never did a background check?” Arthur asks, incredulous. “The fuck kind of forger are you?”

“Not everyone is as nosy as you are, Arthur,” Eames snaps, and Arthur flushes, ears flattening back.

“Well, now you know,” he growls, turning his back. “I clawed my way out of that fucking family so I wouldn't have to become some tom's plaything, and guess what? I'm not giving that up so you can pet me and breed me and keep me at home with the kiddies while you go off to work.”

The fading sunlight slants through the windows, catching in Arthur's hair. He looks tiny, and Eames goes to him, pressing his mouth softly to the shell of his ear.

“I'm not your clan,” Eames murmurs, “and I'm not your family. I don't want you to clean my house and raise my kittens. I want you to cancel that appointment tomorrow because these kittens are ours. I want to stay here and watch you swell with them, and be there when you deliver them, and raise them with you.”

Arthur turns around after a long minute of silence, regarding him carefully. “You're serious about this, aren't you?”

“I brought you peonies,” Eames says, very seriously. “Of course I am.”

The long, hard gaze Arthur levels at him makes him want to fidget, but he forces himself to stand tall, their eyes locking.

Arthur nods, once. “All right. You can stay.”

~

A quiet voice cracks the fragile shell of his sleep, and Eames flips over on the sofa, grunting vaguely. It's not speaking to him, so he takes his time scrubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“Hello, this is Arthur Cantrell.... Yes. I'm calling to cancel my appointment with Dr. Evans today.”

The voice pauses, presumably while the nurse pulls up the file. “Yes, it was for—that. Circumstances have changed. I'm sorry for the late notice. All right.... Thanks so much. Bye.”

The wireless clicks back into the cradle, and Eames stretches heavily against the sofa, back popping pleasantly. “So that nasty appointment is canceled, hmmm?”

“Yes,” Arthur replies, padding into the living room. His hair is a dark, loose halo of curls, and Eames gapes. “You slept through my earlier call—I have an ultrasound scheduled for next Wednesday.”

A strange fluttering starts up in his stomach at the thought. Seeing his babies—

“Do you want breakfast?” Arthur asks, starting to turn away, but Eames crooks a finger at him.

“C'mere,” he murmurs, and Arthur does, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch.

“Arthur, you know that I....” he begins, pausing to slide a warm palm around Arthur's forearm. “You know I didn't come all the way here for a chance at split-custody, right? I came here for _you.”_

“I know,” Arthur nods, lips twitching into a small smile. “Believe me, I know.”

~

Footsteps pad into the bathroom, and Arthur groans over the toilet bowl, shooing him away. Eames, of course, ignores him.

“C'mon, darling, up you get,” Eames encourages, laying a warm hand on the back of his neck to caress his curls. “I'll make you some breakfast.”

“I hate morning sickness,” Arthur rasps, dragging himself to his feet and flushing the toilet. “Who made up all this pregnancy-is-beautiful bullshit, anyway?”

The cool mint of his toothpaste chases the bitterness from his mouth, and he brushes vigorously, glancing at Eames in the mirror. He's just watching, a half-smile on his face.

“I'm sure that ridiculous myth was perpetrated by the non-pregnant parties,” Eames says, very seriously. Something warm stirs in Arthur's chest. “Now, what would you like for breakfast? I can make eggs, but I don't know if that would make the nausea—”

“Eames,” Arthur says, hefting himself up onto the counter, “stop talking and come here.”

Eames does, and Arthur twines his arms around his neck, kissing him softly. Large hands grip his waist in response, his sweater rucking up slightly as they test each other without the fever of heat. What they find is sweet, and Eames urges him closer, moaning lightly into his mouth.

“You're about a month along,” Eames murmurs, fingering the knit hem of his shirt, “aren't you?”

“Six weeks,” Arthur corrects, biting his lip. “Do you... Do you want to—?”

“Yes,” Eames says, eager hands trailing up under his sweater. It bunches up around his wrists, revealing a thin strip of black boxer-briefs, but Eames pays them no attention.

“Mmm,” Eames grunts, mouths meeting off-center as he cradles the soft bulge of his stomach, barely extending over the waistband of his underwear. He traces over it with his thumbs, Arthur's pale fingers wrapped loosely around his wrists.

“How many?” Eames asks, amber eyes glowing softly.

“I don't know,” Arthur shrugs, letting Eames shift him down off the counter, hands testing the weight of him. “Anywhere from two to five, I guess.”

“Five,” Eames repeats, sounding pleased at the idea, and Arthur laughs.

~

Eames' palms are sweating.

It's a ridiculous response to the situation, really. Arthur is lying quite contentedly on the examination table, the gentle bulge of his stomach smeared with goo.

“Looks a bit like lube, doesn't it,” Eames whispers against his ear, grinning naughtily. The quip doesn't do much to still the fluttering in his stomach. If anything, the dimpled smile he gets in return only enhances it.

“S'just as cold, that's for sure,” Arthur murmurs back, glancing at the thankfully-oblivious doctor. The ultrasound machine beside them beeps placidly, starting up.

“We'll get started now,” the doctor says, smiling. “See what we can see.”

Eames watches the wand travel over Arthur's stomach with interest, switching occasionally to stare at the screen. It looks like a mess of grainy black-gray blobs at first, and then—

“Oh yes, everything looks good here,” the doctor suddenly says. “See the baby's arms, there?”

“So they're really in there, huh,” Arthur murmurs, barely audible. The wand continues its journey.

“There's the second,” the doctor says, and Eames can't fight his grin, presses a kiss to Arthur's ear. “See the little line of white dots? That's the spine developing.”

“Now let me just check out the position of the—” the doctor starts, then pauses. “Wait a moment....”

Eames' stomach twists into a quivering ball, hand clenching tight around Arthur's. What if something is—

“There's a third! It's tucked up pretty high above the others.”

“That one must be yours,” Eames grins, all of his tension releasing in one fantastic rush. He strokes Arthur's brow. “Doing its own thing up there. Antisocial and all.”

“I'm not antisocial, you prick,” Arthur laughs, and the doctor turns towards the ultrasound screen, giving them a moment. Eames takes the chance to kiss his nose, the soft curve of a feline ear.

“Would you like a few pictures to take home?” the doctor asks. A quick, silent conversation is exchanged, their eyes locked.

“Yeah,” Arthur finally replies, quirking a smile. “Yeah, we would.”

~

The Manila flat becomes home in small increments, falling together piece-by-piece. Both contribute—a lone sock left on the floor, a small bouquet left on the kitchen table. Eames' peonies are flourishing on the balcony.

An M.C. Escher print appears above the fireplace one day. Arthur smiles when he notices it.

Unfortunately, things are not always so peaceful.

“Fuck off, Eames,” Arthur growls, tail bristling stiffly behind him. “I'm pregnant, not paralyzed. I'll take the fucking job if I want to, all right?”

“You may not be paralyzed, but you're certainly pigheaded,” Eames shoots back, tearing apart a head of lettuce for a salad. It rips with a satisfying noise. “What if you get injured, huh? You're responsible for four lives right now, and I won't have you put in the way of machine gun fire!”

“This job is practically legal!” Arthur hisses back, spreading his arms in exasperation. “Ariadne looked into it specifically for that reason! And it's right here in Manila; what the fuck more could we ask for?”

He pauses, raking a hand through his hair. His tail lashes angrily behind him, a blur of black-gray tabby fur. “I won't sit around here doing nothing for four more months. I told you I won't be your fucking housewife, and I won't.”

The kettle begins to whistle shrilly, and Eames takes it off the burner, his entire back stiff. “Sorry my protective instincts are so degrading to you, Arthur. God forbid I try to keep you and my spawn safe.”

The clock ticks quietly on the mantlepiece, keeping time with the click of Arthur's claws against the counter. Retract. Extend. Retract. Extend.

Arthur pushes away after a long minute, heading briskly for the door. “I'm going for a walk.”

The door rattles on its hinges. Eames finishes dinner, sets the table, and pours himself a drink.

~

Arthur comes back four hours later, his tail dragging behind him. The food has long gone cold, and Eames is slumped on the couch, midway through a marathon of _Grey's Anatomy._

“I'm going to tell you a story now, Eames,” Arthur says, his voice flat. “It's about time you hear it, because you obviously have no idea where I'm coming from.”

The room is dark save for the flickering television, and Eames flips on the lamp. The muted light barely reaches Arthur, throwing him into half-shadow. There's plenty of space on the sofa, but he doesn't move from the doorway.

“24 years ago, a kitten was born to a clan in Massachusetts. He was the male queen they'd been waiting for, so naturally he was pampered as a child. School was fine. Simple. Almost an afterthought to the clan, actually. If the kittens got too smart, after all, they might start questioning their place in the clan.”

He pauses, folding his arms. “In fifth grade, the clan elders introduced the kitten to a tom. That's where it all began, really. _He'll be your mate,_ they said. _You'll raise his kittens and babysit the others,_ they said. _And sometimes, toms from other clans will come to mate you as well. It's the way the clan functions,_ they said. _Tradition must be upheld, after all, in order to keep the clan pure.”_

A burning knot blocks Eames' throat; Arthur's switch to first person is instinctual, strangely impersonal. “They mated me on my first heat, just after my fourteenth birthday. The tom seemed kind enough, so I eventually opened up to him. I even told him my doubts about the clan. I told him I was tired of being looked at like some kind of tool, like some kind of babysitter.”

It's not hard to guess what's coming next, but Eames still feels like vomiting when he hears it. “He slapped me across the face, of course, and told me never to speak like that again. So I didn't. I had his babies, and took care of them while he went off to work.”

“I left on my sixteenth birthday in the dead of night. And the worst part was that I.... I didn't even feel bad leaving my children behind. All I could think about was getting out of there before the elders brought in another tom from some other clan to breed me. I ended up in New York City, and three months later Cobb found me in the gutter.”

Arthur's hands are on his stomach, just touching, his eyes weary and dark. “Now do you understand, Eames?”

“Oh, Arthur,” Eames sighs, hauling himself up from the couch. Arthur's waist is still slender beneath his hands, despite the lives growing inside of him.

“Call Ariadne back,” he murmurs, rubbing his ears. "But I'm coming with you, all right? I'm staying with you.”

“You'd better,” Arthur replies, moving into his arms.

~

Arthur wakes up and is surprised to find he's not the least bit nauseous. Eames is sprawled out on top of the covers next to him, snoring lightly.

“Eames,” Arthur yawns, nudging him with a socked foot. “Wake up. It's late; we have to go to the market today.”

“Hrngh,” Eames grunts back, stretching languidly against the bed. He'd taken his shirt off sometime in the night, his muscular chest tensing as he shifts. Arthur never knew he had so many tattoos.

He rolls over, slides a sleep-heavy hand along Arthur's belly. “You aren't throwing up.”

“Wonderful observation,” Arthur dryly replies, sighing as Eames palm crests the small bulge. His fingertips leave a warm tingling in their wake. “Hopefully this means I'll be getting over it soon.”

“Well we can hope, can't we,” Eames murmurs, smiling sleepily. His hand wanders a little higher, a blunt fingernail nicking a nipple. Arthur's hisses a little at the twinge, tail thumping loudly against the mattress.

“Sorry,” Eames says, rubbing the spot with his thumb. “A bit sensitive, are you?”

“Yeah,” Arthur replies. The pad of Eames' thumb is callused, and the pressure is starting to feel...not bad. “Feeding has always been the female's responsibility in clans, so male queens have lost the ability to lactate. But we still get, er, tender.”

Eames looks at him, licks his lips. “You know, if you're uncomfortable, I could. Um.”

The atmosphere shifts. It would be easy to say no, to laugh it off, but. Despite everything, Arthur trusts Eames.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, watching Eames' lips. The hand on his belly curves inwards, caressing him.

Eames presses his mouth against the swollen areola, tonguing it gently. The pink bud hardens in response, and Eames suckles it like a kitten, plush lips soothing the ache. A low rumble starts in Arthur's chest, his cock hardening between his thighs.

“Mmm,” Eames hums, moving across his chest to suck lightly at the other one. The bedsheets are clenched tightly beneath Arthur's claws; he lets them go in favor of grasping Eames' broad shoulders.

“C'mere,” Arthur whispers, and Eames shifts onto one elbow, dragging his lips up his throat. The kiss is open and breathless, little nipping presses. They've never quite gotten around to kissing, not properly, and Arthur can't help but arch into it, biting at Eames' plush lower lip.

“Bloody hell, I love it when you purr like that,” Eames mumbles, and Arthur realizes that he is, in fact, purring loudly. The next kiss wipes the thought from his mind, a soft tongue sweeping the seam of his lips.

It continues for a long time. When they finally break apart, it's to lock eyes.

“So is this the moment, then?” Eames suddenly asks, grinning slyly. Something serious lurks in his eyes.

“It's awfully tactless to question the moment,” Arthur points out, mouth pulled up into a half-smile. Eames understands.

His palms can't seem to leave Arthur's stomach, caressing the gentle slope with something akin to reverence. Little sighs reverberate throughout the room, their bodies shifting, melting together.

Arthur makes a decision.

He lets the next moan bubble up freely from his throat, grasping Eames' hand where it's touching his stomach and dragging it down between his legs. A soft moan vibrates against his ear, thick fingers curving over his groin.

“Is this what you want, Arthur?” Eames pants, then again, “Is this what _you_ want?”

“I've always wanted it,” Arthur murmurs back, choking down a purr as Eames' fingers dip beneath his sleep pants, wrapping warm around his cock. “It was just a matter of—of....”

The sentence falls away into a mewl of pleasure as Eames strokes him inside his pants, thumbing the head. His knuckles brush Arthur's stomach with every upwards tug, and he bends down to kiss his navel, sweet.

Shimmying his pants off is a difficult process. The base of his tail is sopping; Arthur can feel the slickness against his flesh. He can't remember ever being so wet outside of a heat.

“Eames,” Arthur gasps, and Eames looks up from where he's mouthing the head of his cock, quirking a questioning eyebrow. He lifts his tail out of the way, displaying his glistening pink pucker, and Eames groans, burying his mouth against it.

It's not what he was going for, but Arthur's cock jerks just the same, leaking a bead of precome. Further down the bed, Eames is slurping noisily and moaning.

“C'mon, do I really have to say it?” Arthur grits out, claws tearing at the sheets. Eames glances up at him, his mouth glistening. _Yes._

“I want your cock,” Arthur whispers, touching the tip of his tail to Eames' cheek. “I want you inside me, okay?”

“Won't my barbs hurt you?” Eames asks, slithering up his body. Feline grace isn't one of Eames' strong points, but the lithe flex of his muscles still leaves Arthur's mouth dry. “Or the babies?”

“I want it,” Arthur purrs, hooking a thigh over Eames' hip, “and the babies will like the rocking motion.”

“I guess that settles it then, huh,” Eames smiles, shimmying out of his pants. His cock is big and swollen, flushed red, and Arthur spreads his legs for it, tail snaking around the thick bulk of Eames' thigh.

“Just be gentle,” Arthur murmurs into his mouth, claws pricking against his shoulders. A murmur of assent, and then soft hands are cradling his belly, Eames' thick cock pressing up inside of him.

It's overwhelming. He can _feel_ it, every sensation pulsing down his spine. In heat, nothing registers but the rush of desire, the need to fuck. This is different; he can feel Eames' calluses against his stomach, can feel the stretch in his thighs as Eames' hips press between them.

Hundreds of tiny barbs shift minutely inside him as Eames rocks slowly against the curve of his ass. The prickling awakens something deep in Arthur's brain—he wants the ache of it, the burning twinge.

Eames' mouth tastes like old smoke and whiskey, and Arthur nips at his chin, wrapping slender calves around his waist. The friction of his cock inside of him is maddening, and Eames steadies him with hands on his swollen belly, the bed rocking beneath them.

Sweat trickles down his temple, and Eames wipes it away, groaning throatily against his ear. It won't be long, not with the lewd, slick noises coming from between his legs.

“C'mon,” Arthur mewls, tail tightening around Eames' thigh, and he does, hot come spurting deep inside of him. The slickness of it is too much, pulsing inside him, and Arthur arches against the bed with a feline wail of pleasure.

“Nnn,” Arthur sighs, opening his eyes. Eames is poised over top of him, eyes shut tight and forehead creased with concentration—resisting the urge to pull out, Arthur realizes.

Arthur suckles his earlobe, distracting him into a kiss. A minute later he's gone soft, and he pulls out carefully, watching Arthur's face.

“I'm fine,” Arthur murmurs, kneading the sheets with a happy purr. “More than fine.”

“More than fine,” Eames grins, and curves around him.

~

Ariadne is delighted to hear they're coming. They leave for the warehouse three weeks later, as Arthur is coming up on three months.

“Halfway along,” Eames whispers against his ear, reaching around to rub his growing belly. His suits have already been tailored to fit his bump, and he looks impeccable.

“Ariadne will be excited to see you showing, won't she?” Eames grins, kissing his neck. “I suppose we'll have to let her take you shopping.”

A noncommittal noise is all Arthur can get out, at first. “Uh. She doesn't really.... I just told her to keep an eye out for low-key jobs in Manila, that's all. She doesn't know.”

The silence that follows is a little stifling. "Do you plan on remedying that?"

"Eames," Arthur sighs, turning to face him, "I know what you're thinking, and it's not that I'm ashamed of it, okay? I just don't want people thinking that me being pregnant...makes me weak, or something. Or incapable of doing my job."

Eames chuckles a little, reaching up to rub him at the base of his ears. The sensation startles a purr out of him. "Believe me, my dove, your reputation precedes you. If anyone doubts your capability, I'm sure you'll have them on the ground with your shoe on their throat, triplets and all."

A laugh bubbles up from his throat, accompanied by a pair of dimples. His ears shift forward, relaxed for the first time all day. "I wouldn't step on their throat--I wouldn't be able to see their face over my fucking stomach, anyway."

Arthur's smile is suddenly wicked, bumping their noses together kittenishly. "And I think Ariadne will figure things out for herself. She was there during conception, after all."

"Not technically," Eames points out, guffawing with scandalized delight. "And what in the world has gotten into you, my sweet?"

"You, last night," Arthur quips, then blushes at his own joke. "...Or maybe it's the hormones?"

Arthur has to pinch him to shut him up, he laughs so hard.

~

They walk into the warehouse together, approaching what feels like a million pairs of staring eyes. The team (save Ariadne) is gaping, just short of impolite. Arthur notes with amusement that it's not for the reason he was expecting; these people (new meat, as far as Arthur can tell) are simply overwhelmed to be working with the Arthur and Eames. Never mind the cat parts and obvious pregnancy.

Ariadne comes racing up, all smiles, and dives into Eames' arm. He chuckles, whispers a few words in her ear.

Then she moves on to Arthur, beaming extra-wide. To her credit, she says nothing about the bump pressed up against her abdomen, only smiles.

"Arthur, Eames," she introduces, "this is Tina and Jorge."

"A pleasure to meet you," Arthur says, studiously ignoring the glances being sent in the general direction of his torso. "I hope we'll work well together."

Later, Eames approaches him with a cup of tea. Arthur takes it with a smile, allowing him to lay a hand on his stomach, briefly.

The elephant in the room dies a quick death.

~

Arthur goes over the job dossier that night in bed. Ariadne had given them a general idea at the warehouse, but most of the day had been spent establishing the framework of team dynamic. Over his shoulder, Eames is reading it as well, humming occasionally.

The client is a 66 year-old wealthy business-owner dying from heart disease. The job is really fairly straightforward: the client has drifted away from his only son, and wants to know, very simply, if his son is worthy of inheriting his successful Manila-based global marketing company.

“So we just need to find any skeletons his son has in the closet,” Arthur says, once he's finished reading. “Sounds simple enough to—”

His stomach rumbles. Loudly.

“Are you craving something in particular, my petal?” Eames grins, putting the dossier aside.

“I don't crave weird things,” Arthur defends, making a face. (Except for that one time last week, when he shook Eames awake at seven in the morning and demanded grapefruit). “I'm not even hungry.”

They stare at each other, a silent battle of wills. Eames' mouth twitches into a smile.

“I'll make you a grilled cheese,” he says, sliding out of bed. Arthur wonders, not for the first time, if he's actually psychic.

~

“This here is the bank Evan works at,” Ariadne explains, pointing at a mostly-finished styrofoam building. “He's a very job-oriented man; any secrets will be hidden in the vault there.”

“And Eames is forging the bank manager in order to wheedle the combination out of him,” Arthur says, mostly to himself. “All right. The projections should leave us alone until we crack the safe, then.”

“Right,” Ariadne nods, looking up at him with bright brown eyes. “And everyone should be very safe and out of there in just a few hours and goddammit Arthur, I can't stand this anymore. How many are there? How far along are you? Do you know genders yet? Can I buy them lots of—”

A finger to the lips halts her barrage of questions. “Three. Three months. No, and I don't want to know. And you can buy them lots of whatever you want, I guess.”

She beams at him. Across the room, Eames smiles.

~

“Shit,” Arthur says to his laptop, raking a hand through his hair. His ears are laid flat against his hair. “Shit.”

“What is it?” Eames asks, laying a hand on his shoulder and squinting at the computer screen. “What did you find?”

“Looks like Junior isn't so innocent after all,” he reports, dryly. “He's almost certainly got connections to a local mob that deals both in drugs and black-market dreamshare technology.”

“He'll be militarized, then,” Eames says, with dawning realization. “Bloody hell, I thought this was going to be a low-key job.”

“I thought so too, obviously,” Arthur replies, tapping impatiently at the keyboard. “You'll have to go in fast; hopefully he'll give up the combination before the projections catch our scent. If not, we'll have to hold them back while you wrangle it out of him—”

“Why can't we just tell Pops his son is involved in a gang and be done with it?” Eames asks, a displeased line forming between his brows. “We didn't account for this, Arthur.”

“Mr. Thompson might not care much about involvement with black-market PASIV devices,” Arthur replies, “considering the fact that he hired us. Now, if his son is dealing heroin, that might be a different story. We still have a job to do, Mr. Eames.”

“I know, my love,” Eames says, dragging a thumb along his cheek and dropping his eyes to his stomach. “I wish there was another way, but I trust you'll keep yourself—all four of you—safe.”

“It doesn't matter in a dream,” Arthur points out, reading Eames' body language like a faded novel.

_It does._

~

The dream slips out of their control like sand through an hourglass. Eames plays his forge beautifully, wiring them the probable combination fifteen minutes in. It looks like an easy finish, until they begin moving towards the vault. Projections rain down on them in a vicious pack.

“Just get in there!” Arthur shouts, ducking around the corner to send a bullet through the nearest projection's forehead. Tina's fingers are trembling on the combination lock, her incompetency fraying Arthur's nerves.

Mr. Bank Manager quickly slips back into Mr. Eames, backing down the corridor with gun in hand. Evan has undoubtedly run off somewhere, but they have what they need, they have—

Oily metal flashes in Arthur's hand, his defensive squat pronouncing the bulge of his stomach. A bullet ricochets inches above his head, spewing a thin fan of plaster.

Something clenches in Eames' stomach, an acute panic lighting up his nerve endings.

“I've got it!” Tina yells, and Arthur drops back, his formerly-pristine suit dusty and rumpled. Eames breathes a sigh of relief, and runs past the open vault door.

“Drugs it is, then,” Arthur says, glancing around the room. Bags bulging with cocaine are stacked up against the wall, a folder balanced on top of them. A PASIV is tucked into the corner, almost an afterthought.

“Give me that,” Arthur demands, pointing to the folder, and Tina hands it to him. The telltale crash of approaching projections leaks in from the corridor.

His eyes fly over the papers inside, and he casts them aside before raising his gun.

“Time for the kick,” he says, pulling the trigger. Eames crumples to the ground, glad to go without seeing Arthur put the gun to his own temple.

~

Arthur winds up the IV tubes with practiced efficiency, snapping the case shut. They leave Evan at his desk, woozy. Their parting with Tina and Jorge is nothing more than cordial; Ariadne gets a hug from both of them and an invitation to visit whenever she pleases.

Later, Eames presses Arthur into the wall and kisses him, hands cradling his hips as he erases the lingering, imagined scent of gun powder.

~

“Ariadne,” Arthur says, looking bemusedly at her armful of pink baby clothes, “What if all three of them are boys?”

“Then they will be very pretty, well-dressed little boys,” she cheerfully replies, folding the clothes and neatly settling them into the new mahogany dresser. “And don't worry, you've got a girl in there. I can feel it.”

“You woman and your maternal instincts,” Arthur sighs, rolling his eyes.

“Bloody hell!” Eames grunts, his screwdriver thunking to the ground. “This goddamn crib is a pain in the arse to assemble, let me tell you.”

“Don't swear in front of the babies,” Arthur scolds, absently. “I don't want them inheriting your filthy mouth before they're even born.”

“And you complain about my maternal instincts,” Ariadne mutters, and goes to help Eames with the cribs.

~

It is sweltering. The air conditioning is doing its job elsewhere in the flat, but the heat of the oven, paired with the harsh sunlight streaming in through the window, is creating quite the sauna in the kitchen. Eames gave up on his shirt half an hour ago, and is mindful of his bare chest as he pulls the lasagna out of the oven.

It's a box one—Eames is shit at making lasagna—but Arthur doesn't need to know that.

A soft “Eames!” comes from the bedroom. Arthur's been napping in there for the last hour, and Eames goes to him, leaning his hip against the doorway.

“Yes, petal,” he says, smiling. “Dinner's ready.”

His graceful feline spine arches against the mattress, and he groans, relaxing under the weight of his heavy stomach. Sunlight flickers over his tabby ears.

Three weeks ago, he'd complained to Eames that he was tired of not being able to see his own dick. Eames had assured him that it was still there, and still quite lovely.

He sniffs at the air, nose twitching delicately. “Box lasagna, hmm?”

“Nope,” Eames grins, walking over to sit on the edge of the mattress. “Real this time.”

“You're a liar,” Arthur yawns, then bites his lip. “Come here.”

“Mm,” Eames grunts when Arthur tugs him down into a kiss, claws prickling his chest. “I quite like this horny phase of yours. It's much more fun than the grilled cheese phase.”

“It's not a phase,” Arthur growls, nipping at his earlobe. A heavy breath whooshes out through Eames' nose, hands sliding up under his worn-thin t-shirt. “Your box lasagna just turns me on.”

An unattractive guffaw escapes despite his best efforts, and he buries his face into Arthur's hair, snorting with laughter. Arthur purrs and kneads at his chest, pleased with himself.

“One day you're actually going to succeed in ruining the mood,” Eames points out, kissing over his belly as it's revealed.

“I doubt it,” Arthur says, rubbing his thigh against Eames' hip. A sly smile follows. “I'm still horny, anyway.”

“Well, I suppose I can help with that,” Eames murmurs, tugging Arthur's shirt over his head and pinching a sensitive nipple. It earns him a hiss of pleasure, the loose curve of his tail hinting at his arousal.

Liquid rumblings vibrate the space between them, Arthur tipping his head back as Eames suckles a path down the pale length of his throat. Their sweatpants are fumbled off somewhere along the way, hands grasping at bare flesh.

“This is going to be difficult,” Arthur chokes, the statement stuttering off into a gasp of pleasure as Eames caresses the base of his tail.

“That hasn't stopped us yet,” Eames grins, sprawling onto his back and patting his lap. His cock is curved up against his stomach, thick and purpling. Arthur licks his lips. “Why don't you try hopping up here, darling?”

“I'm five months pregnant, Eames; being on top makes me feel like a whale,” Arthur complains, but hefts himself up anyway. A full-body shiver wracks his frame at the feel of Eames hot between his thighs, his tail lifting out of the way in silent supplication.

“You look beautiful,” Eames murmurs, rubbing the head of his cock through the slickness beneath Arthur's tail. “I love watching you like this, you know.”

He presses inside before Arthur can reply, the sticky-hot slide of it stealing the breath from his lungs. The bulk of his stomach throws off his coordination; Eames' hands curve around his hips in compensation, his pelvis spreading to cradle Arthur's weight.

The slow shift of their lower bodies is maddening, their eyes locked as Arthur kneads Eames' chest, tail quivering with pleasure. Eames is murmuring something to him, barely audible praises, thumbs skimming the curve of his stomach.

“Eames,” Arthur rumbles, rolling down against the cradle of his hips, “gonna come.”

“Yeah, let me see you,” Eames breaths, thumbing the head of his cock, and Arthur mewls, ears pulling back.

A tight clench of pleasure erupts inside of him, thighs shivering and achy as he comes against Eames' stomach. Eames is close behind, writhing beneath him and grunting lowly, eyes squeezed shut and lush mouth parted.

A minute later, Eames is soft enough to shift him carefully off his lap, settling him down onto his side and curving in behind him. Warm breaths ghost across his nape, and Arthur twists back to kiss him languidly, fingering his stubble-rough jaw.

“Your box lasagna must be cold by now,” Arthur grins, folding his tail over Eames' hip and nipping at his lips.

“I'll heat it up again,” Eames promises, murmuring against his lips, “in a few minutes.”

~

“I know I'm not a very good cook, petal,” Eames says, slanting a look across the table, “but you could at least try to stomach one bite of it. To spare my tender ego, you know.”

“I'm just not very hungry,” Arthur mumbles, pushing his noodles around his plate. “I'm going to go lay down, I think.”

“All right,” Eames agrees, a thin furrow forming between his eyebrows. Something is off about the set of Arthur's ears, the curve of his shoulders. “Call me if you need anything, all right?”

Twenty minutes later, Eames finds him pacing the bedroom, hands restless on his stomach. A harsh exhalation escapes his lips, and when their eyes meet, Arthur's are bright with certainty.

“Eames,” he pants, tail quivering out behind him. “Eames, it's time.”


	5. Birth

_**Birth**  
the queen will give birth to anywhere from two to five kittens_

The hospital hallways pass in a dizzying rush of white-painted walls and hospital staff, breaths fluttering nervously in and out of his lungs. Every decoration in the maternity ward is geared towards "soothing", but Arthur processes none of it, thoughts directed inwards with laser-sharp focus. Waiting for the next twinge is suddenly ten times more suspenseful that waiting for the kick, the intel, the bullet to the head.

Eames is wild-eyed and anxious, fluttering uncertainly beside the bed. "Flustered" is something Eames is simply not, is never, and Arthur soaks up the contradiction, smiling reassuringly up at him.

"I've done this before," Arthur reminds him, and for the first time, the reference is painless. "Just hold my hand, okay?"

Eames does.

~

The first squalling cry pierces the air like ripping paper, like the tinkling of a bell. Beside him, Arthur is coated in sweat and panting heavily, eyes mere slits beneath heavy lashes.

“It's a boy,” the doctor announces, smiling, and before Eames can process this information a squirming, shrieking bundle is being laid in his arms.

“Oh,” Eames murmurs, looking down at their son. He feels buoyant, wonders absently if his feet are still touching the floor. Tiny tabby ears pull back against sandy wisps of hair; a delicate tail finds his pinky finger, wraps around it. “There you are, my darling.”

“Let me see him,” Arthur rasps, arms curling around the tiny body like they've always been there, like it's the thousandth time instead of the first. The look on his face isn't quite excitement.... It's the peaceful joy of finally receiving a long-expected guest.

“This is William,” Arthur murmurs, cheeks dimpling, and it's as simple as that.

~

Small, whimpering cries filter through the thin veil of his sleep. He stirs with a sleepy groan and blinks blearily at the glowing red numbers on the alarm clock: 3:12.

Eames' chest is warm beneath his cheek, rising and falling with the even rhythm of sleep. A thick, muscled bicep is curled over his waist, holding him close, and Arthur carefully shrugs it off before slipping noiselessly out of bed.

The cries have picked up a notch in volume. There's still time to prevent a full-out meltdown--a few nights juggling three screaming infants has taught him to avoid those at all costs.

The nursery is lit only by a small nightlight, and Arthur feels his way carefully down the row of cribs, pausing in front of the third. Benjamin has his fists pressed into his eyes, tiny face scrunched up in a sob.

"C'mere, baby boy," Arthur murmurs, sweeping him up into his arms. A quick check of his diaper assures Arthur that he's dry. It's not surprising that he's up for no particular reason; Benjamin is quite attached to his daddy and tends to cry when he wakes up without him. Eames, of course, immediately suggested he sleep with them, but relented when Arthur insisted he learn to sleep in his crib.

"Shh, Daddy's sleeping right now," Arthur soothes, bouncing him on his hip and pushing back a lock of sandy hair. "Dad will have to do for now, okay?"

Big, blue-gray eyes look back at him, soft lips tight and quivering. He'll go back to sleep, now, Arthur thinks...just before Ben clenches his fists, draws his downy-soft ears back, and wails. In the next crib, William awakes with a raspy cry.

Soft footsteps patter down the hallway, and Eames enters with a bleary smile, a week's worth of stubble on his face. Ben reaches for him, beaming.

"Hello, my precious," Eames murmurs, taking him into his arms. William is already tucked up against Arthur's chest, tiny fists sunk into the fabric of his t-shirt.

Naomi, bless her heart, is still fast asleep, her tail wrapped snugly around herself. Her soft, sleep-tousled curls mirror her dad's, although her round cherub face looks a good deal more rested.

"You should have gotten me up," Eames whispers, kissing the dark spots beneath Arthur's eyes. "It was my turn."

Arthur shrugs, laying Will back into his crib. Ben is decidedly awake, tugging merrily at the start of Eames' beard.

"I'll leave you to it, then," Arthur grins, heading towards the door. Halfway along, Eames' catches him around the waist with his free arm and hauls him in for a kiss.

"Goodnight, my love," he murmurs, stealing another kiss from sleep-pliant lips. "Sleep well."

"Hopefully," Arthur whispers back, nuzzling his cheek for a moment before stumbling back to bed.

~

He wakes up five hours later to blessed silence. Next to him, Eames is sprawled out on his back, watching him with a smile.

"Hi," Arthur yawns, curving into the warm bulk of him and burying his nose against his bicep. "Did Ben go down for you all right last night?"

"Yes indeed," Eames replies, fingering his loose, dark curls. "He just wanted to play for a bit. You know how those male queens are; so dramatic."

"You know it," Arthur agrees, opening his legs to allow Eames to settle on top of him.

"I missed this when you were pregnant," Eames admits, sealing their mouths together for a long, nipping kiss. "Being face to face like this."

The next kiss wipes any reply Arthur might have had from his mind, and he moans a little, arching into Eames' hands as they coast up his waist. They haven't had sex in almost two weeks, simply haven't had the time, and Arthur's aching to be had.

"Did you take your pill yesterday?" Eames breathes against his mouth, grasping the curve of his ribcage. A quick nod is all he gets in reply--Arthur has never been so thankful for modern medicine. One tiny blue pill tricks his body into thinking it's pregnant, so Eames can rake him raw without ever causing him to ovulate.

Harsh purrs freely vibrate up from his chest; Eames' mouth feels amazing against his skin, suckling soft and wet down the column of his throat. Their pajamas are wrestled off quickly enough, and Arthur pulls Eames down against him, enjoying the hot, solid weight of his body pressing him down into the mattress.

"Hey," Eames smiles, thick biceps bracketing his face.

"Hey," Arthur whispers, letting his eyes flutter shut as Eames pushes his tail aside and slides up into the tight slickness of him.

"Mmm, darling," Eames rumbles, dragging thick, moist lips over the slope of his shoulder before latching onto the slack curve of his mouth. The next few sentences are muffled, breathed quietly over the slick sound of his thrusting, but Arthur catches what might be "you feel so good like this" or maybe "love you so much".

Eames' hips roll slowly down into the cradle of his pelvis, suckling kisses stifling their shared moans of pleasure. A hot clench slowly tightens in Arthur's gut, unfurling in a toe-curling wave of sensation as Eames drives him to climax.

Soft grunts moisten the skin of his throat, hips stuttering as Eames spurts inside of him. It seems to go on for a long time, their lips catching and releasing as they nuzzle each other.

The sharp sting of his withdrawing barbs is a welcome pain, mewling cries and soothing kisses drawing it into an affair nearly as intimate as climax itself. Shared air whistles between their lips.

"Things are going to be different now, you realize," Eames murmurs a few minutes later, gazing down at him with eyes flecked the color of the sea. "And not just for a few years. There won't be any more grand heists or inceptions for us, my love."

"I knew that the moment I decided to keep them," Arthur nods, drawing a finger over Eames' stubble-rough jaw. He pauses, the hint of a dimple burrowing into his cheek. "We're the best in the business, Eames. People will pay me millions of dollars to conduct research from home, and all the new meat will flock here to learn how to forge from the master. And if we don't want that, or we don't have the time.... Well, we can tell them to get lost."

"When in doubt, order them to bugger off, huh?" Eames teases, leaning down with the intention of giving him a thorough snogging.

A raucous cry sounds from the room next door.

They lock eyes, grinning, and settle on a chaste press of lips.

"Rise and shine," Eames says, and kisses his temple.


End file.
